Eric Bischoff


It feels stale—
wanting some dramatic destiny
to be drugged into my dreams
but being only
into a poet
and wanting and feeling nothing more,
and so that poetry is spat prepubescently
into a dented trumpet I play,
sheepishly swaying an imitation of a dance
on marbled romances, absurdities;
On a quest to deify myself, honestly,
and finally be shown to the world
as a donkey.

This line of work will make your mother faint.
This will make dad drink again,
advise knocking it off while he nods off.
This is a sick fetish for the

self-proclaimed mystics,
a poor excuse for laziness, really,
a lie for some disgruntled manager.

I’d’ve gotten my head straight, I swear,
but I knew I’d use too much force
and twist it ‘till it breaks in its place,
would’ve popped my head out of

those rippling pages,
but I knew it was too late,

Too late to stay safely crouched into
computer friendships and households,
or soaked in a sexy self pity,
too late to be lazy without the constant
drag of a dream, too late to stay

behind, rolling my eyes
at the dreamy poet who dies with

each word I sacrifice.

So goes the work and it’s slot eats your coins,
and so goes another hungover morning
as I slowly bend and deeply,
in my own dreamt destiny decline,
to write out some beauty which I know
will rot in the hideous sundown
of a horrible caffeine comedown.

But, by god, in the face of all that,
I will be the most insane mistake to ever
sneeze upon a sunny face;

the worst retired beauty,
fat and sick like hospital flesh smells;
a terrible screech cracking golden bells;
a hellish, disruptive, degenerate smear-

Yeah, that’s it alright,
drink up over there, friend,
sure, I like your lips stained red, humor me now,
and pass that red kiss onto a furrowed head—
another bum poet is burning his words,
letting each dog-ear come to life with flame,
hoping to bake loaves of bread to break,
and feed to crows for misery’s sake.

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